


the old soldiers' hospital

by afterism



Category: Horrible Histories
Genre: Ghosts, Horror, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 03:14:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterism/pseuds/afterism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>written for my own prompt on the anon meme, because I wanted to write a ghost story for Halloween.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the old soldiers' hospital

"William," the mirror says, and Blenkinsop pulls the pillow over his head.

\--

The hospital is quiet, now he's back in Blighty - even the screams of the burn victims start to soften amongst the rolling hills, the echoes lost in the mist hanging between the ancient pines. The fresh country air must be doing him the world of good, he thinks, as the silent nurses stretch fresh sheets over the neighbouring cot and the world is a gentle grey as they smooth out the creases.

He survived. That's what matters.

\--

There's a mirror at the far end of the ward, hanging above a chest that sits by the double doors, and sometimes he watches the silent nurses fix the pins on their caps as they study their reflection. He looked at it, once, soon after arriving, and screamed so loudly even the silent nurses flinched, touching a hand to their hearts.

There's a face in that mirror that isn't his own. It tries to speak to him in the night.

\--

"William. William," the mirror says, and Blenkinsop tries to bury himself under the blankets.

\--

"A tragedy," Archie says, except it's Doctor Robertson now, and he's not quite meeting Blenkinsop's eye. "I went to school with him. Maltravers, too. Is there any news?"

"Killed in action, sir," someone says near Archie's shoulder, obscured by the blinding white of his coat. There's a ruffle of paper, pages being turned over a clipboard. "They, er, found his body."

"A strange comfort," Archie says, calm and quiet and Blenkinsop is _boiling_ , because _how dare he_ be so unfeeling, when Maltravers was the one who covered for Archie once when he was out of bed after a curfew, and who gave him his pudding after he'd been beaten for speaking up in class and he's so angry he's _shaking_.

He reaches for the glass of water beside his bed, unsure whether he's going to drink it or throw it at him, but his hands are unsteady and useless and instead it's knocked to the floor, shattering with a splintering crash.

"Oh," Archie says, staring at the mess. Blenkinsop is too angry to apologise, so he just folds his shivering arms and looks out the window, past a silent nurse who is already hurrying over to sweep up the shards. Archie moves on to the next bed, and Blenkinsop doesn't see him again.

He knew Maltravers was dead. He saw the shell hit as they charged across no man's land, and _knew_ with screaming bones that he was dead -

but now it's _true_ , written up and people _know_ and can talk about it without clawing at their throats like they're drowning and Blenkinsop can't stop shaking, even as the bed creaks under him and the silent nurse rushes out of the ward. He draws the blankets up over him, and he's alone.

\--

"Please, William," the mirror says, and he knows that voice.

\--

His uniform sits, neatly folded, on a chair beside his bed. It's still there every morning, and he supposes the silent nurses must have been told not to touch it, but someone must have because it looks clean and whole and not at all like it's been dragged through barbed hell. It's stiff and cold when he pulls it on in the empty ward, but it settles neatly like a familiar skin and he smoothes down the creases, and the world outside the window is a silent grey as the mist strangles the ancient pines.

No one stops him as he makes his way through the corridors, and the front door is stiff and heavy as he pulls it open, the swollen wood grinding against the floor, but there's a voice that shouldn't be in his ward and he finds the strength to heave it wide. He leaves it open behind him as he steps out into the mild air.

He can't quite remember the last time he was outside. The air is clean and tasteless, and he sets off down towards the road. He's not quite sure where he's going, but _away_ seems like a spiffing idea.

\---

The hospital sits at the top of a hill, with a long, winding drive and a thick iron gate at the end. It's half open, the black paint peeling off into rusting swirls, and this must have been a grand house once, before the War. It looks old and weathered when Blenkinsop glances back, curling a hand around the gate, and something about the dull clouded sunlight makes a few windows look more like board.

He turns away, and the fog has rolled back a little: he can see the outlines of a small town in the distance, and what must be a train station as steam rises white and clean like a signal, and there's the faint clunk of the tracks shifting, echoing oddly across the landscape. The lawn from the house rolls on beyond the gate, the few ancient evergreens shedding thick shade over the dew-slippery grass, and Blenkinsop can taste rain in the air as he starts off towards the town.

For the first time since coming back to Blighty, a feeling like _home_ starts to settle in his bones.

\--

There's a path through the still grass, flattened slightly and brushed forward like a track that's revealing itself just for him, and mist is creeping back in around the edges as bare, winter-grey trees begin to line the way - they spread in the fog and Blenkinsop is deep in the forest, the path behind him indistinct and there are deep red leaves spreading out from under his boots. Endless evergreen out of the hospital window and he can't remember the last time he saw the seasons change.

He stumbles forward as some deep instinct screams, _gas attack_ but no, he's in a forest and there's a severed arm among the leaves, so muddy and ragged and out of place that for a moment Blenkinsop can only stare, but then there's the shredded remains of a body slumped over a thicket of barbed wire and something red covered in mud under a helmet and there's body parts scattered over the forest floor and he can't hear anything, not even his own breathing as he takes off running, slipping and stumbling and dry heaving as he throws himself over a fallen tree and flings himself against the trunk, dragging his knees up to his chest and burying his face in the circle of his arms, because this can't _possibly_ be real, not now, not after all this time--

"Hullo, old bean," the voice from the mirror says, and there's only silence as someone sits down next to him.

He knows that voice.

Maltravers smiles as he raises his head, and the mist has drawn closer, turning the edges of his world into soft nothing but that's not at all what matters, as _Maltravers_ smiles and lays a gentle hand over his own. Blenkinsop opens his mouth to speak, but there are no words.

"I'm afraid so," Maltravers says, and Blenkinsop doesn't mind, not that much. Maltravers looks clean and whole and not at all like he's been dragged through barbed hell, and Blenkinsop can _feel_ the familiar roughness of his fingers, always slightly warmer than this own.

"Now what?" Blenkinsop asks, his voice rough and quiet and unused.

"'Afraid I don't know, dear boy. I was waiting for you," Maltravers says, and turns his hand so he can link their fingers together.


End file.
